


The Case of the Mouse's Trap

by Bsmadi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Rated teen for language, Tags we don't need no stinking tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3233510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bsmadi/pseuds/Bsmadi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evil villains come in all shapes and sizes, and sometimes they come way too early in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Mouse's Trap

“Bugger.”

It’s amazing how hard it is to grab a phone when it’s… Jesus, when it’s only five thirty. Five fucking thirty in the fucking morning. On a fucking Sunday, the one day in the week that John Watson allowed himself to sleep in. So, of course, the phone that would normally be in his hand after having been picked off the night table was now on the floor with the message thingie binging every three fucking seconds, and he, John Watson, the man who was going to sleep until at least ten, was now forced to get up out of bed and find the fucking thing.

“This had better not be you.”

It was.

_John come down here immediately._

_John, I need you._

_Bring your gun._

__

“Shit.” Suddenly wide awake John opened the drawer of the nightstand, grabbed the gun and flew down the stairs. He stopped in front of the sitting room door, noticing that it was an inch or so ajar. This, by itself, would not be worrisome. The two men who inhabited this flat were often careless when it came to doors, much to the annoyance of their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Still, combined with the texts he had just received, John chose caution and, gun preceding body, slowly opened the door the rest of the way, and silently entered the room.

“Sherlock?” Really, John had no idea what he had expected to find when he entered the room, but he was pretty sure that finding his flatmate standing on the back of the sofa, back against the wall, arms splayed for balance, clad only in his pants and socks, wasn’t on the list. “Wanna explain?”

“Shoot it, John.”

Nope. That was not the explanation he was looking for here. “Sherlock, what the hell are you doing up there and why the hell did you feel you needed to scare the living shit out of me to come see it?” He brought his arm down, carefully pointing the gun at the floor, and took a moment to look around. “Shoot what?”

“It.” Sherlock started to point, but pointing is not conducive to balancing on the back of sofas, even if your back is against the wall, so he made due with a head nod toward the middle of the room. “That. That thing.”

John frowned at Sherlock and then looked in the general direction of the head nod. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t see anything.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room, scanning for the elusive “it”, then, with obvious reluctance, he stepped down from the back, though not completely off, of the sofa. “Well, it was here. Perhaps it escaped out the door when you came in.”

“One can only hope,” John replied. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, ridding himself of the unused adrenaline. “So what, exactly, was it I was supposed to shoot again?”

“The mouse…” Sherlock sat on the back of the sofa, feet on the seat. “Obviously.”

“Obviously.” John scrubbed at his hair and scratched the back of his head. “Five fucking thirty. Jesus.” He really, really wanted to be angry, to fume and fuss and be unreasonably loud, but when he saw his friend, perched like a hawk on the back of the sofa, trying to look casual and somehow almost pulling it off, he just couldn’t do it. All he could manage was a disgruntled, “I need tea.”

“Make mine sweet.”

“Yeah, yeah.” John opened the doors to the kitchen and plugged in the kettle. “So,” he said. The corners of his mouth were trying to turn up despite his attempt to be serious. “A mouse?”

“Well...” Sherlock slid slowly down the back of the sofa until he was sitting properly. “It was a fairly large mouse.”

John pursed his lips. “Of course it was. A bloody, great giant, no doubt.” He turned back, not even trying to hide the smile now and reached to get two mugs from the sideboard.

“Shit!”

There was the jolting sound of porcelain shattering against countertop and suddenly there were two men standing on the couch, one holding the gun he grabbed by instinct on the way. “Okay, yeah,” that man said. “There is a big, fucking mouse in the kitchen.”

“Told you so.” Sherlock smiled smugly, then took up his former seat on the back of the couch.

“So,” John settled next to his friend. “You’re the genius. What do we do now?”

“You could still shoot it.” 

“Yeah,” John shook his head. “I’m not going to shoot a mouse, Sherlock.” When the man looked pointedly at the gun that just happened to be in John’s hand and just happened to be pointed in the direction of the kitchen, John shrugged. “Reflexes.”

“Fine.” Sherlock sighed. “I suppose we could just sit here until it decides he’s bored enough to leave.”

“I don’t think mice get bored.”

“Oh, I’m sure the smart ones do.”

“A genius mouse, that’s what he is.” John began to giggle. “An evil genius.”

Sherlock smiled. “Mouscroft.”

John smiled back. “Mousiarty.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the kitchen door. Finally, John nudged Sherlock with his elbow. “Go see if it’s still there.”

“Me?” Sherlock’s voice did not, he’d swear it on a stack of Bibles, squeak in a horrified manner, at the very suggestion. “Why me?”

“You’re dressed for it.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and held out his arms to display his near nakitude. “Well, you have socks on. I don’t.”

“Meanwhile,” Sherlock argued. “You are wearing full-length flannel pajamas, with…” Sherlock stopped and considered. “Are those teddy bears, John? Really?”

“Hey!” John feigned great annoyance to hide his embarrassment. Truth be told, these were his only clean set, and he had forgotten what he was wearing. “I’ll have you know, Mrs. Hudson gave me these. They are quite comfortable and I’m quite fond.” He almost managed to pull a completely straight face. “I certainly can’t risk damaging them over a stupid evil genius mouse.”

“You can’t be a stupid, evil genius you know.” Sherlock was muttering. A muttering Sherlock was a dangerously close to sulking Sherlock. A sulking Sherlock is an annoying Sherlock. Being trapped on a sofa with a sulking, and therefore annoying, Sherlock was, well, it was just too horrifying to contemplate at, what was it now? Six fucking fifteen.

“Give me your phone.” 

“Why?” Sherlock held onto his phone as if it alone could save him from the horde of mice no doubt having some sort of mousey convention right now in their kitchen. “Who are you going to call?” He scowled at his pajama clad friend. “Do not even think about call Graham, or… Oh, you weren't considering calling Mycroft were you? He’d never let me live that down. Oh, Sherlock, afraid of mice, now are we?”

John held out his hand. “Just give me the sodding phone, Sherlock.” Oh, yeah, we were way past muttering and far into annoying here. Sherlock glared at John, possibly trying to explode his head with his mighty brain, but then, after a Oscar worthy sigh, slapped the phone into his hand. 

With a roll of his eyes, and a whispered, “Git.”, John dialed a number and waited as the phone on the other end rang. “Hello, Mrs. Hudson? Yes, I know it’s early. I’m sorry. It’s only, I was wondering if you could possible call pest control?”

Sherlock tried to grab the phone from John, who held on to it fast, unwilling to have Sherlock cancel this request out of pride. He was surprised, therefore, when Sherlock yelled loud enough for Mrs. Hudson, and, frankly the whole neighborhood, to hear even without the aid of the phone.

“And do hurry, Mrs. Hudson,” he shouted. “We seem to be trapped here.”

John clicked off the phone and handed it back to Sherlock. “There,” he said. “Shouldn't be too long, I suppose.” 

He was right, because just then they heard footsteps on the stairs and within seconds, Mrs. Hudson stepped in the door. “Oooh hoo, boys!” she called out. Stepping in the room, she looked at them, balancing on the sofa, trying to look as if it were the very most natural thing to do. Sherlock even crossed one leg over the other in the effort. “Oh, you boys,” she said. “Imagine if the criminals of London could see you know, eh?” She held up a small carrying case. “I’ll just go get George, then shall I?”

John and Sherlock looked at each other, then at Mrs. Hudson. Both wore identical expressions of confusion. “George?”

“Well, yes, that’s his name, you see.” Mrs. Hudson went into the kitchen and came out almost immediately, a small bundle of brown fur in her hand. “He belongs to Mrs. Turner’s nephew. I was watching him for the night.” She placed him in his plastic case. “He must have got out, the little rascal.” She watched her boys creep down off the sofa and smiled as they surreptitiously surveyed the room, trying to confirm that this small pet was in fact the intruder that had somehow grown to the size of the rat of Sumatra in their minds. “I’m sorry he had you trapped,” she said. “Still no harm done.”

“No. no harm done,” confirmed John.

“None at all.” Sherlock grabbed the comforter from the chair and wrapped it around himself in a late bid at modesty. It was then that he noticed that Mrs. Hudson was giggling. He looked at John, who shook his head. “Do you mind telling me what’s so funny?”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Hudson put a hand over her mouth trying, with no success whatsoever, to stop. “It’s just you were trapped by George.” She headed out the door and was half way down the stairs when she finally got it out. “You see, don’t you?” she called. “You were trapped by a mouse.” The laughing started in earnest and just before her door slammed shut, she said. “I can see the headlines now. The great Sherlock Holmes and his soldier companion John Watson were caught today. Caught in a mouse trap.”


End file.
